First Impressions and Hangovers
by Convenient Alias
Summary: Gatsby wakes up the day after a party with a terrible hangover. Also, he's not in his room. Actually, he's not in his own house. He'd probably be more worried about this if not for the headache. Oneshot.


AN: This story is AU-Gatsby hasn't met Nick yet and knows absolutely nothing about him although Nick has been living next door for quite some time. Enjoy, and please review.

/.../.../

He woke up with a pounding in his head and a glaring light in his eyes. Not atypical for the morning after a party, a Sunday morning. Gatsby hadn't intended to drink so much last night but there'd been circumstances. Daisy hadn't come (she never came) but Tom Buchanan had showed up for some reason, with another woman, as if Daisy wasn't more than enough for any man, and Gatsby had been just so mad. Four shots without a second thought, and that been the beginning of his evening.

Sun in his eyes. He moaned, buried his head under covers, but it wasn't enough. Why hadn't his butler drawn the curtains? He knew he was supposed to draw the curtains whenever Gatsby was too drunk to do so himself. Cursing, he clambered to his feet and stumbled over to the window, pulling the drapes closed with a jerk. It was only when he had done so that he noticed that the drapes he had just pulled closed were not his drapes. And the window he stood at was not his own window.

He was not in his own room. Now that he'd noticed, the differences were as glaring as the light still slipping through the gap between the curtains. The walls were wood panel-his walls were gold and red and pink and even green in some rooms, but never plain wood. And his bedroom's walls were a pale yellow. This room had a few bookcases, crammed full of books mostly about finance-how dull-and there was a threadbare rug on the floor. Rugs in Gatsby's mansion were never threadbare.

Frantically, he looked back at the bed he had just climbed out of. It was small, a lot smaller than Gatsby's own bed. Too small to fit more than one person. He sighed in relief, and neatened the blankets a little since he wasn't in his own house.

Where was he?

He considered checking the view out the window, but his headache vetoed the idea. His headache also told him the best idea would be to go back to bed, but of course he couldn't do that.

He stumbled over to the door, which was closed. As his hand curled around the knob, an idea flashed into his mind. Maybe he was kidnapped! It wouldn't have been difficult to steal him from his mansion last night in his inebriated state, and practically anyone was allowed into his parties, even the most suspicious characters. Perhaps the door was locked and even now a kidnapper was on the phone with his butler, demanding an exorbitant ransom.

The idea was thrilling. Gatsby was a little disappointed when the doorknob turned. Nevertheless, he resolutely stumbled out the door and down the hallway, determined to find someone who could tell him where he was.

His resolve wavered when he came to a set of stairs. Gatsby really did not want to have to deal with a flight of stairs. He was beginning to consider going back to bed until the headache went away when a figure appeared at the bottom of the staircase.

The man was short and brown haired. He called up to Gatsby, "Oh, you're awake."

That was all he said.

Gatsby already knew he was awake. That was not the explanation he needed. And the man's voice was very loud.

"A little quieter, old sport?" he said, clutching his head.

The man winced in sympathy. "Oh, sorry." He came briskly up the stairs, arriving eventually at Gatsby's side. He was not so short after all, up close, but there was still something diminutive about him. Something in his face, his stance. His clothes, too-grey pants and white shirt, nothing showy about them.

Gatsby decided he probably owned the house. He seemed the type who wouldn't mind a threadbare rug. He seemed the type to own books on finance.

The man helped Gatsby back to the bedroom without saying much more. It was probably obvious that he wasn't up to going down stairs. That, of he was kidnapped after all and this man was a kidnapper and wanted to keep him in the bedroom. Gatsby liked the idea but it didn't seem very likely.

The man disappeared for a minute, reappearing with a cup of coffee that he handed to Gatsby. Gatsby drank it down. It didn't help much, but it gave him enough energy to look the man in the eye and ask. "Where am I?"

The man blinked.

"Oh," he said. "We're in West Egg. Right next door to Gatsby's mansion. You know Gatsby...right? I assume you were at his party last night."

Well, it certainly wasn't a kidnapping since the man didn't even know who Gatsby was.

"Know Gatsby?" he said. "Why, old sport! I am Gatsby." He rubbed his forehead. "Does that make you my next door neighbor?"

The man nodded. "Nick Carraway. So you're Gatsby?"

"Yes."

Nick frowned. But all he said was, "Do you need more coffee?"

"No, thank you." Gatsby took the room in again. So this was what the house next door looked like on the inside. He had never truly considered the matter before. "How did I end up here?"

"I found you passed out on my lawn," Nick informed him.

"Oh," Gatsby said. "I was drunk." That probably hadn't been the best first impression to make on a new neighbor. Why hadn't he introduced himself to the man sooner? Then he could have come across as a respectable, well-to-do sort of man, not as some sort of idiotic drunkard.

Not that Gatsby cared what Nick thought of him. Only he did seem to be rather nice. Perhaps it was not too late to salvage the situation. He smiled warmly at Nick and said, "Well, thanks for taking me in, old sport! I don't much like sleeping on grass." A thought occurred to him. "Did I take your bed?"

"Yes," said Nick. But he smiled back at Gatsby in such a reassuring manner that Gatsby was sure he would not hold a grudge. "It was fine though. I slept on the sofa in the parlor, and I stayed up most of the night reading anyways."

"Well," Gatsby said. "I'm still sorry to put you to all the trouble."

"No trouble at all."

Nick seemed to mean that, but Gatsby knew the troubles of dealing with drunks, even unconscious ones. He had played host to more than his share of them at his parties over the past couple years, and although it was sometimes amusing, it could also be very annoying. Nick probably still did not think very well of him, which was a pity. Who knew how long the two of them would be neighbors, after all?

"It seems a bit strange we've never met before," Gatsby said sheepishly. He was running out of things to say. "Seeing as we're such close neighbors." Of course that was at least partially his fault, not having taken the time to look into his new neighbor. But he thought he should have seen Nick around town.

Nick shrugged. "I don't get out so much."

And then Gatsby knew. He knew exactly how to make up for things with Nick. And how to make a good second impression that would hopefully replace the first. "I say, old sport," he said, offering one of his brightest smiles. "How about you come to my next party?"

Nick raised an eyebrow. "You mean the one you'll hold next Saturday?"

"Yes. I'll send you an invitation," Gatsby decided. He never sent out invitations, but this would be special. "And I'll send around a car to pick you up, too. That way you can't avoid it."

Nick laughed. "I can walk over to your house in barely a minute."

"So you are going?"

"I have been curious about your parties," Nick admitted. "All right. Next Saturday."

Gatsby had to leave soon after that, which was a pity. Nick was a good conversationalist. He listened, and he didn't talk a lot. He listened for about ten minutes straight while Gatsby described what his parties were usually like. Perhaps Gatsby shouldn't have done that. It probably compounded the bad impression he was making.

But he couldn't stay much longer because the day after a party there were things to do always, and he had told Wolfsheim he would call. (Wolfsheim was not such good conversation, but there were business matters to discuss.)

Nick Carraway...He decided he would have to see more of his next door neighbor this summer. Though he shouldn't get too involved. After all, he had to remember that his first priority was Daisy. And there was no way that getting close to Nick would help him to reunite with her.


End file.
